Sympathy Pains
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Malcolm Reed can't help it whenever Trip mentions Lizzie, all he can think of is his own sister of the name Madeline, not Elizabeth, etched out above an empty grave. Stronglanguage!Trip PG13 for a reason and reallyanxious!Reed yeah!


Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.

This is a fic about Lizzie Tucker's death and how it affects… Malcolm Reed. Yes, you read right. See, as horrible as it is to admit, sometimes when horrible things happen to our friends, our internal sympathies are for ourselves, not them. As ashamed as I am to say it, when my best friend's mother was diagnosed with cancer, my first thought was not for her, but of my own Mom and her well being. I didn't like feeling that way, but it is somewhat just human nature. So here it is, applied to fanfiction format. 

AN: I think I recall Madeline having moved back to England; however, she might still be in Malaysia with the Reed parents. I dunno- if you do, please tell me!

****

Sympathy Pains

His friend's eyes were shining with wild anger. Malcolm Reed, stupidly determined to press the subject until it- or Commander Tucker- exploded, went on.

"All I'm saying is that my little sister, Madeline, is about the only good thing left from my childhood. If I lost her… I don't think I could have stood it half as well as you are. But that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with admitting your grief!"

"Malcolm!" Trip shouted, eyes straight ahead, walking full force down the corridor so fast that the shorter man had to skip on every other step just to keep up. "Will you stop trying to be my damn counselor?!"

"I'm just trying to be your friend," Malcolm replied quietly, belying none of his own rising anger. "I'm just trying to help you."

"What do you want from me?" Trip demanded, whirling on Malcolm briefly for the second it took the door to Engineering to slide open. 

Malcolm sighed. "I just want you to let me in."

"Damn friggin' ironic, ain't it?" Tucker growled. Without another glance at his friend, he strode across the room, got down onto a sliding board and disappeared under a malfunctioning consul. Malcolm leaned against it for a few minutes, unmoving. When Trip finally realized he wasn't going away, he slid back out and looked fiercely up at the Reed. But his eyes were no longer really angry, just exhausted- lined with red and shaded deep purple.

"Let me help," Malcolm repeated, taking his weight off the consul and shifting to his feet. "I know you're trying to be strong, but…"

"But what?" Trip spat out. "You want me to admit I'm grieving? You want me to cry? Okay." He sat up, trying to recapture some of his anger, but he still only looking very, very tired. "Okay," he repeated. "I do cry. I cry myself to sleep every night. I lie awake for hours, just thinking of her. Sometimes I don't even get to sleep, I just lie there all night- looking at her picture and bawling like a baby 'til I damn near make myself sick. Happy?" He stood. "Sometimes I almost think she's there, standing right next to me, tellin' me to stop it, to get up and go on but you know what? She not. She's dead." Trip's voice rose to a near-shout, and several nearby crewmen turned briefly to see the cause. Malcolm sunk back slightly. This wasn't what he had meant at all.

"She's _dead_," Tucker continued, oblivious, "and you're damn straight I try to be strong. Sometimes it don't work though. Sometimes it's not enough." He thrust his arm forward, and Malcolm watched in horror as a pulled-back sleeve revealed a series of jagged, red cuts- some scarred over, some fresh- running horizontally across the length of Trip's wrist and forearm. 

"Sometimes I do that," Trip said with deadly satisfaction. 

Malcolm pulled back, trying simultaneously to calm his friend enough to apologize to him and to get away as fast as possible. "Trip," he said weakly. "Trip, I…"

"I take a razor," the other man was saying, smiling wildly, an insane look in his eyes. "I take a razor, or some scissors, or even some broken metal from somewhere in Engineering. And I put it on my skin and drag it, drag it 'til blood comes out. And then I just look at it, at the blood, and that's what gives me strength. That's what makes me strong. I…"

Malcolm Reed backed into the stairs and woke, gasping, with a thin layer of perspiration sticking his skin to his t-shirt. 

__

It was just a dream, he told himself. _Just another dream._

Out of force of habit, he pushed up his sleeve and fingered the thin lines crossing his biceps and shoulders… small, pale pink cuts, healed over some as long as twenty, some as recently as five years ago. 

Once he had his bearings, once he had managed to tear his hand away from the scars, Malcolm forced himself to think clearly, admonishing himself for this recurring nightmare. He had not lost Elizabeth Tucker- Trip had. And yet every time his friend talked about Lizzie, every time his eyes filled with rage at the mention of the Xindi, Malcolm had to fight hard not to think of his own sister Madeline … _safe back in London_, he reminded himself sharply. 

What if England had been hit? What if Maddy's name had ended up etched above an empty grave instead of Lizzie's? What Malcolm had said in his dream had been right- if he lost Madeline, however far apart they'd drifted in the past few years, he knew he'd go to pieces. He couldn't handle it; no matter how badly Trip was coping, Malcolm knew he'd be ten times worse.

With practiced force, he lay back on the bed and made his eyes shut tightly against the darkness of his quarters.

__

Maddy's okay, he reminded himself. My_ sister is alive. _

Somehow, this almost made him feel worse.

AN: I would like to continue with this, as soon as I figure out where I want to go- lol! But for now this works nicely as a standalone, so I figured I'd post it for some opinions or suggestions from you wonderful readers who are going to review! Right? ;) Criticism welcome too, please!


End file.
